Runner's High
by thi3f
Summary: Set in modern day. What if Vash, Knives and the rest had been reincarnated into a modern city? Tragedy leads to more tragedy, but can there ever be a break in the cycle? Totally Knives-centred, Knives angst, Knives torture and Vash kindness. ^_^ Aw.


Well... this is set in modern times in yet another random 'city' with Knives as the main character of our first chapter.   
If there are even going to be *more* chapters. I haven't quite figured that part out, yet. I tried to keep it true to   
what I thought would be the circumstances surrounding Knives' personality type. And yes, there is a little Knives/Vash   
later on. 9_9;; It just came out. Can't help it. Though not true yaoi, even. Anyways, enjoy(?).  
  
DISCLAIMER: Don't own Trigun, nor any characters affiliated or connected with. I ain't makin' a cent off this.   
Watashi o "sue" suru ja nai. Onegai shimasu?   
  
  
  
MARATHON  
  
  
  
The sky was ridiculously blue as it faded to black, and it ached within Knives' abdomen deliciously as the lanky blonde   
lay spreadeagle on the grit and dust, high above the people on the street. Above his lonely form a helicopter pratted   
with an ugly voice. In his peripheral vision the teen could see the faint rustlings of dirt swept by wind tumbling across   
the flat of the roof he was currently inhabiting.   
  
He found it rather nice to get away for a while, and just let the sun bake his flesh warm.  
  
Ahhh, stretch like that. Felt good, didn't it? Lips curve into a smile didn't seem so odd now, to just smile instead of   
grin. It wasn't so much the place that Knives enjoyed, it had to be the release.  
  
*Just...let me melt away right now, God.*  
  
And wash away all the trouble from this goddamned city. All the gunbattles and all the death. Sweep all the metal and   
helicopters away. Knives flexed his long fingers, arms flung out to the side as they were, and wiggled his toes deep inside   
his heavy boots. Just... get rid of them all. All of them. Get rid of his father who never stopped to hear a word he said   
and get rid of his that worm in his belly, eating him away day after day.   
  
He rolled over onto his side and pillowed his head on his arm and felt his silver earring cut into his flesh.   
  
  
  
_  
  
  
  
"Hey, Knives!"   
  
The teen lifted his blue eyes gently and regarded Tyler without skepticism. The boy shook his head and hooked one finger   
delicately through the leather choker that Knives wore.   
  
"Fag."  
  
Knives blinked as if he had been slapped, and swiped Tyler's hand away. The other boy sneered down at his black clothes   
and heavy lace-up boots, and ripped his hand away from contact from Knives'. He didn't have to say the rest, Knives knew   
it well enough. I hate you. You goddamned *fag* with your earring and your hopeful eyes. Stop looking at me like you could   
help me.  
  
Knives slipped quietly from his seat at the cafeteria table and closed his binder. In it was a picture he was drawing for   
Art--just a picture of a face screwed up in anger and hatred. Tyler's cronies shoved him away into a wall, but he just  
shouldered his satchel and kept walking. He wished they hadn't broken his beloved sunglasses the other day. He'd found   
them on the street a few weeks ago--they seemed to fit him perfectly. Anyway, he wanted the things. To hide from the world   
would have been sweeter than an ice cold Coke right now.  
  
*Could I, God?* He asked silently, raising his eyes to the roof and flourescent lights. *May I?*  
  
No answer of course, and no angel to swoop down and rescue him. Every day, it was the same. Knives looked over and saw Mary,  
a dark haired foreign girl he'd talked with once or twice, and she smiled to him. The boy's heart lifted and he rubbed the   
back of his neck. Took a hesitant step in her direction.  
  
Of course not. Mentally he shuddered. Mary would make him happy, and *that* couldn't happen, now could it? He was cursed.   
Forever.   
  
The step reversed itself, became a turn, and Knives left Mary on her bench. Slowly, her hand dropped down to her lap.   
Knives never seemed to want to talk to her. Why was that? He...he looked so sad. Always.  
  
Mary wanted to talk to him.  
  
He walked away.  
  
  
_  
  
  
His father held out his hand. "Marks."  
  
Knives laid the card in the man's hand and waited for the inevitable results.  
  
"Well, you did well with Archery in Physical Education."   
  
Keep reading, Dad, Knives thought. It just keeps getting better and better. Knives figited as he looked down at his feet   
on the worn carpeting. There was a hole in one of his socks and he could easily see his toe. He wiggled it, and tugged on   
the edge of his black sweater.  
  
"But...oh, dear me, Mathematics has taken a turn, hasn't it, Knives?"  
  
He nodded, resigned already. "Yes."  
  
"And you've been studying?"  
  
He nodded, head so low his chin touched against his chest. "Yes, sir."  
  
There was a brief span of silence. When the sound retuned, it was as cold as ice. "But, *son*, the marks just keep dipping?"  
  
He swallowed to moisten his throat. The answer was a bare whisper in the two bedroom apartment. "Yes." He wished his mother  
were still here. She had left. Escaped. He wanted to be with her.  
  
"Did I raise a stupid boy?!"  
  
The slap came sooner than expected across his face, and Knives fell backwards onto the couch littered with magazines. The   
hole in his sock completely wiped from his memory.   
  
"DID I?!"   
  
Slap, slap, slap, wringing his neck back and forth. And then a simple punch. Knives could have laughed with the break in   
monotony. One in his face, another in his eye. Finally a strong hand around his throat, choking him. Soft gagging noises   
escaped from where he retched and clawed feebly at air. His father was beyond reason. His face was flushed red and his   
pupils the size of mere pinpricks. All he could see was this..this...impudent son of his! A son who couldn't pull his nose   
out of his sketching tablet long enough to care about the real world!   
  
The boy was flung down to the couch again, and he breathed heavily through his nose.  
  
"Don't *ever*..." The man paused for breath. *Disappoint me..." He'd kill that lazy little brat! "Again!" He swallowed.   
"And get rid of that goddamned earring, you little punk!" He wouldn't stand for Knives--that *stupid* nickname!--acting   
this way! He would have to tighten up the discipline in this house! He had lost his wife because he'd been so lax, he   
wouldn't fail again with his son!  
  
"You know..." The man swallowed, and picked up his belt from where it lay over the back of a dining room chair. "That I   
do this because I *love* you, right?"  
  
Knives didn't answer, but just stared evenly at the looming creature who came for him, for his soul.  
  
  
_  
  
  
Knives collapsed on his bed and clawed the rough sheets up around his face. How much more of this could he take?! Up and  
all around him his drawings stared with graphite eyes at their creator laying with bloody hands and face, shoulders shaking.  
He heaved sobs into the pillow. How much more? Why was he expected to take all this? "What did I do?" He pressed out, and   
clenched his fists tight as tears leaked tracks down his cheeks.  
  
Nothing went right for him! Nothing! Knives cursed God in that instant. Anything he ever felt pleasure for was ripped away   
almost as soon as it began!  
  
"Some goddamn sick nursery rhyme," the boy muttered into his pillow. "God to Knives: How do I hate thee? Let Me count the   
ways..."  
  
Three came to his mind, easy.  
  
"First mum." Mum who ran away from Dad when he first began to throw pottery and fits when dinner wasn't on the table.  
  
"And Mary." Mary who he couldn't stand to look at. She was so beautiful, and Knives? Hah!--he was some mock-up caricature   
of a human being. He wasn't anything real. He was a monster.  
  
"A-And everything!" Even his art. It had taken a turn for the decided worse when the pencil began to slip from his fingers.  
Slippery, slippery fingers. Slippery with blood. Bathed in blood. Knives was..bathed in blood. It took an eternity, but   
Knives levered himself up onto his elbows. Bathed in blood. Why hadn't he seen this before? He could bathe the city with him.  
Escape from this Hell he'd been thrust into and maybe to be alone.   
  
Knives didn't even want happiness any longer. He just wanted solitude to lick his wounds and curl up in darkness.  
  
Madness.  
  
He began to cry again, and welcomed the madness into his soul as an only comfort.  
  
  
_  
  
  
He would do it, then. Knives licked his lips nervously and rolled to his back from where he'd been laying for nearly three   
quarters of an hour. The earring mark made an indentation on his flesh that tingled as he levered himself to his knees.   
  
He would do it good and properly, and wash the city's sins clean with this one final act. He breathed in deeply, clearly,   
and noted with satisfaction that there were no helicopters flying in the sky.   
  
"Deep...breaths..." He calmed himself, and shuffled on his knees to where his satchel lay in a discarded heap of green   
canvas. His fingers shook as he undid the clasp and brought out the object stolen from a hunting supplies store. A large,   
thirteen inch bowie knife. The plastic was slick under his fingers.   
  
He clasped the handle and the sheath in opposite hands and tugged--the blade came free easily, as it had been meant to do.  
Light reflected from its glossy surface, so cold and deep.  
  
"I...could almost fall in."  
  
He would. or, rather, the blade would sink into *him*.   
  
"This is it." The end. Remember, boys and girls, cut *up*wards on the vein, and if you can, lay in a warm bath. It stops   
the blood from clotting so easily. "Here I go." The boy whispered, and lay cool death alongside his forearm.  
  
"Wash..." the city clean. His eyes slid to half mast heavily.   
  
Arms suddenly encircled him, and Knives almost choked again, thinking his father had followed him up. Oh, God, he would   
be *so* dead if that were to happen. But instead of choking him, the arms plucked the knife from his grasp and flung it   
to the other side of the roof. Knives twisted around awkwardly and snarled.  
  
"Who..." He grated out, fists clenched and face ugly with humiliation and shame. "Who the fuck do you think you are?!"  
  
The boy who stared him in the face could have been his brother they looked so similar. Instead, he mostly looked shocked   
at the moment, as if he couldn't comprehend how someone would be *angry* with another for saving his life. His mouth opened   
and closed, but it was Knives who recovered first. He'd kill whoever this punk thought he was!  
  
"Don't *ever* interrupt on a person's suicide!" Knives barked, and shoved the other blonde hard in the chest. The boy   
bowled over backwards in the gravel, and twitched slightly. Knives continued to pant with exertion and fear--who was this   
person, anyway? He clutched his hand at his shirt over his heart, and waited for the other boy to get up.  
  
Now most of the true anger was gone, and Knives could appreciate just what this strange had done for him. Killing himself   
on the *roof*? Puh-lease, he could think up something more artistic than that. Something to horrify his father as he came   
home from work. Yeah, that'd show that older fucker.   
  
But the other boy wasn't getting up. Hesitantly, Knives rose from his knees to his feet and took a ginger step towards the   
other boy.   
  
Maybe he was dead. *Two* corpses. Knives found he liked the sound of that.  
  
All of a sudden, the other boy began to shake. Then snicker, then chuckle, then laugh. And Knives could tell, he was   
laughing at *him*.  
  
  
  
  
________  
  
  
*bows* Fin! Didja like? 


End file.
